


A Present Fit For A Bard

by RazMahDaz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Geralt Didn't Know!, Jaskier has a birthday!, Jaskier has a small mental breakdown, M/M, Misunderstandings, The Other Wolves help, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, geralt being an emotional idiot, idiots to lovers, ish, maybe husbands if you take it that way, weird how that happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazMahDaz/pseuds/RazMahDaz
Summary: Jaskier's birthday is in Winter so Geralt never really pinpointed it and it just kept slipping his mind. But the first Winter at Kaer Morhen with the bard turns sour as Geralt realizes just how fucking DUMB he really is. Now, he races to put together something sentimental for the bard to make up for lost time!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 144





	A Present Fit For A Bard

Geralt was in trouble.

Every winter had been hard, no matter how routine he presumed going home would be. Terrible monsters that forced him off the Path and delayed him to the point of being blocked from Kaer Morhen, the castle itself crumbling far worse than previous winters because of far nastier storms, or those rare and often heartbreaking winters spent without one or both of his brothers because they simply couldn’t make it through the pass in time. There were most certainly harder winters that Geralt had survived through, but now, in this moment, he couldn’t describe a worse or more threatening feeling than what the bard had just told him.

It was partially Geralt’s fault, and standing in the moment, he’s never felt more stupid. Every spring when he finds his companion and asks how his winter was, Jaskier always said “I’m a year older but still ready to out walk Roach.” Geralt would give a smile or laugh. It just made sense to him, the phrase, Jaskier saying he was older. A year had ended and started, so Geralt never felt the need to question it.

He suddenly began to question how he could be such an Idiot.

This year, finally, to even his own surprise, Geralt invited Jaskier to Kaer with him, finally letting himself have the luxuries that Jaskier has always said he deserved. Thankfully, Jaskier agreed, and the hike and travel had been remarkably kind to them. As well as everyone who stayed with them, Lambert and Eskel throwing arms open for the bard to finally walk into after so many decades of mere stories and mentions and passed “He says hello”s. The keep was being improved upon, Jaskier bringing a new motivation to their work through the inspiring songs and funny tales he would share while they did mundane chores, and the storms came and went without much complaint, which impressed Geralt by how well Jaskier seemed to be adapting to such a harsh climate.

This past week, however, Jaskier seemed to have slumped in posture and attitude. Everyone became used to the morning lute practice and half worked songs that their new companion filled the cold halls with, but those ditties have pittered out with the passing days. And now even the afternoons and evenings were growing a familiar and unwelcome quiet.

Tonight, though, when Jaskier went to bed hours earlier than he normally did, Geralt finally decided it was time to check on him.

The Witcher opened the heavy door to his bard’s room, the fireplace glowing low while Jaskier sat in a chair facing the warmth, his body hunched over himself a bit, his hands rubbing together to keep warm. Jaskier had only had the space for a little over three weeks and it was a stark reflection of his personality. Borrowed books from the library scattered about and the bed barely made, but no matter how intense the mess, it felt homely and comfortable. It felt like He belonged in the stone cold keep just fine.

Geralt walked over and leaned against the chair, his hand pressing against Jaskier’s back to let him know he wasn’t alone anymore. The bard’s head picked itself up and turned to look at him, a gentle smile tugging at the once downtrodden face he had been wearing. Jaskier leaned back into the chair and Geralt moved his hand to his shoulder, as they both just watched the flame flicker.

“You’re upset,” Geralt stated low. He knew Jaskier was upset, that wasn’t even a question, but he didn’t know how to ask what was actually wrong. The Witcher found that as long as he started the conversation, Jaskier would lead him through it.

“Is it showing?” Jaskier asks half heartedly with a hollow laugh. “I’m sorry if i’ve been bringing everyone down with me.” Geralt winces at the words, even if he knows that they’re a joke. He brings himself forward, sitting just on the edge of the arm rest. Jaskier had never needed an invitation, so he let his head roll to the side and rest on Geralt’s arm. They sit in a long stretching, but warm silence, it still sitting harsh in Geralt’s stomach.

“Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Geralt finally asks with no sense of shame. 

The bard sighs long and horse before placing his arm and hand on Geralt’s leg, patting it absentmindedly like the large man sharing a chair with him was nothing more than a simple house cat. “Nothings wrong just...Different,” Jaskier admits, blowing a stray piece of hair from his face. That, Geralt expected. Kaer Morhen was far different from Oxenfurt, and he had feared the bard would be lost in such a place, either physically lost while wandering the halls, or emotionally at the cold and dark keep being the only scenery for months. His hand came up and tucked away any stray hairs.

“It’s my first winter here and away from my friends and family. Not that you aren't my Family, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jaksier’s hand squeezed Geralt’s thigh, reassuring him. “I just usually spend my Birthday with family and childhood friends back in Lettenhove, or with my peers in Oxenfurt. And I know how you Witcher’s don’t age, so I’d say the concept is kinda Mute here.”

And there it was. The thing that slammed hard into the Witcher’s skull like a sword was splitting him. Jaskier’s Birthday was the thing that made him doubt every ounce of intelligence he held in his body. Geralt had gone on close to a decade of not ever once questioning it’s date or passing, but now, in this chair with a melancholic bard on his arm, he was whipping himself over and over for such inconsiderate behavior. He could feel his heart pick up a few beats as terror raced through his very nerves, worse than any monster could ever make him feel.

“Ahh,” He said simply, all words throwing themselves into the void that is apparently his head. That’s when Jaskier turned to look at him in the eyes with the gentlest of smiles, and Geralt nearly fell from his perch.  
“You’ve never been with me for my birthday, have you?” Jaskier asked his eyebrow raising. He looked tired like Geralt had never seen, a disappointment scorning him but Jaskier dulled it down, and that made it sting something in his core. “Ahh well, nothing to do about it. Maybe some drinks and some Gwent at this week’s end and we can call it another year, hmm?”

Jaskier stood, pushing on Geralt’s leg so he could stand up and stretch his already-aging bones. The Witcher stood up and was tongue tied, barely working out the syllables for a ‘Goodnight’ before he found himself in the hallway outside of Jaskier’s door, his heart aching and the back of his eyelids stained with that horrible hopeless expression Jaskier gave him. Geralt needed to make this right, and he needed to make it good. All these years as friends, all these years of him wanting something more, and he didn’t even have the fucking decency to as much as Ask when Jaskier’s birthday was. The bard was right, Witcher’s never really celebrated their own birthdays, but he should have assumed that someone like Jas would make a large deal out of the personal day.

Fuck.

Geralt wasn’t sure the last time he sprinted so hard his chest hurt, but it was probably deserved. His legs carried him down the stairs and back to the dining hall where, thankfully, Lambert and Eskel were still sitting and drinking the early evening away. They looked at him like the man was running from a pact of starving wolves and stood from their table and rushed to the man’s side in an instant. Eskel’s hand landed on his shoulder to guide him back to their table because Geralt looked like his lungs were about to give out on him. Lambert looked passed the door and down the hall to see if he could spot exactly what had him so startled.

“Bloody hell, what happened to you?” Lambert blurted to him, still keeping watch. “Where’s Jas, is he safe?” 

“He’s fine,” Geralt growled out as he sat down, leftover whatever the hell he was drinking earlier pushed into his hand. Eskel knelt beside him just to make sure he didn’t choke. “Somewhat fine, rather. He’s...His…” Geralt tried hard to find the words without it incriminating him too much.

“He’s What? What’s Wrong with Jaskier?” Eskel tried to ring out of him.

His lungs finally settled and Geralt gathered everything in him to speak.

“His Birthday,” Geralt said in a hush, but no whisper could go unnoticed around here.

The heavy door closed on it’s own, the hand keeping it open letting gravity do the work as Lambert turned his head in a swift motion, pure dumbfounded-ness on his face. He walked over and Geralt could see that he was filled to the brim with ‘Are You Stupid?’ waiting to spill out and slap across the back of his head. He even looked to Eskel and found that, even as gentle and understanding the scarred Witcher could be, even he was confused out of his mind.

“His Birthday is...Wrong?” Eskel tried to figure out.

Geralt’s head fell in his hands and he felt the dark flush of shame fill his face. God, this was gonna be hard to explain. But if he wanted the other’s Witcher’s help in this, then he’d have to choose his words and actually speak them.

“It...Feels wrong to him, this year. He’s sad that…'' Geralt paused and looked at both his brothers behind his fingers. This was going to sting. “He’s sad I didn’t know his birthday, and that he wouldn’t get to celebrate with his family.”

SMACK

That did sting, a hard slap to the back of his skull almost knocked him to the table. Eskel yelled Lambert’s name in shock and there was bickering, but Geralt was somewhat lost as to what specifics were said because, fuck, Lambert had an arm on him. Soon enough he’s met with Eskel’s scarred face who just looked equally confused as before.

“So you...forgot?” He asked.

“I just...Never asked.” Geralt explained.

Lambert was about to smack him again but Eskel stopped him before he could make proper contact. They shared a moment of silent speech, a ‘I know but Don’t’ argument had in complete silence.

“But,” Geralt cut into this voiceless fight. “But I want to give him...Give him something. Something he’ll like. I feel Awful for not asking all these years and I just...I just want to make him happy,” his voice petered out at the end, like it was a confession.

Lambert let out a long sigh. “So, what, a Party? Brew up something strong that he’d like, maybe a book from the library?” He asks, trying to give somewhat useful suggestions.

Geralt just shakes his head. “That’s what he’s expecting. I want it to be good, I want it to be personal.”

“I can make dinner with Vesimir, something close to what he likes,” Eskel offers. But no, no, these were great but they weren’t perfect. They didn’t make up for a decade of seeming disinterest. If Geralt was going to make this right, he needed to make it perfect. He needed to Make It.

It hit him, and not like Lambert had. This was Harder and more precise.

“The Forge,” Geralt says. “I’ll make him a blade, maybe two.. Something Silver, something he’d like…” Geralt thinks deeply for a moment, contemplating ideas of make and what would suit him just right for his weight and balance. 

“A Sword?” Lambert inquired, giving it some hard thought.

“Like ours,” Geralt informed. “He’s not a Witcher, But he’s…” Geralt paused a long second. “I want him to be something close.”

Silence overtook the room again, but this time, it wasn’t judgemental or harsh. It was warm and full of space for ideas and improvement and excitement. This was beyond thoughtful, in all Witchers eyes, a handmade set of weapons being the one thing that ties them all together, every wolve back to the same pact. Each sword different, but concept the same: a set to defend themselves like all of them were there, to have to remind them that they're not alone on the Path.

They talked that night, endlessly about what would fit right and what would work well for the bard. ‘This has to be great’, Geralt thought. ‘He deserves perfection.’

__________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier swears, with everything in his bones, that there used to be other people in this castle besides just him.

Ever since the other night with Geralt, Jaskier hadn’t seen much of him besides his morning hellos and his evening farewells, the two not having a solid conversation other than what they talk about at Dinner, which even then wasn’t much of anything. Geralt was never a good liar, Jaskier became aware of that fact very early on in their companionship. So when he asked ‘What were you doing’ and Geralt says ‘Working’, Jasker can’t help but know that he was hiding something. It didn’t help that every morning when the bard actually got his eyes on the other, he looked ragged, and every night he seemed worn worse. And it wasn’t like he could ask Lambert and Eskel anything, because of course he couldn’t.

He saw the pair more during the day than he had Geralt, but whenever he did, they seemed in a rush, wanting to be somewhere completely opposite of where Jaskier seemed to be in that moment. Prying never worked. Lambert waved him off, told him it’s Witcher’s work and not to be disturbing them, and Eskel, the one person Jaskier counted on giving him at least a clue, just excused himself and said some random task needed tending to before fumbling his way out of the conversation.

The bard was going mad, feeling like he’s completely lost control of whatever sanity he’s had. No matter how much he picks at his lute, scribbles down verses, or even bite at his nails until it hurts, Jaskier couldn’t seem to understand what’s been going on around the keep. He thinks back to what he said, to what he did the last time things were normal. ‘Did I say something wrong? What if I did make everyone sad along with my moping? Gods, was it the leg touching???’ He racked his brain over and over again, searching for whatever insult he posed to his hosts so he could maybe make up for it. 

Though, from the way they seemed to be running away from him like the plague, he doubted he could return next winter.

“You look like you’ve been bit by a chimera,” Vesimir says as he walked into the Library Jaskier had cooped himself in for the afternoon, trying desperately to feel normal again. He can’t say he’s actually been reading anything, just staring at the page in front of him for over an hour. “What’s wrong boy, lost your song?”

Jaskier smiled at that, he did. Vesimir he at least did see, but being the man in charge, he didn’t see him any less than he had already. “Just...I don’t know, I can’t think right, I’m finding. Have you noticed that things are...Off?” He held out hope that the Oldest of this pack might be able to give him some insight.

“More than usual? Maybe, but I think it’s you’re doing,” Vesimir states as he organizes the collection of tomes. And that’s exactly not what Jaskier needed to hear. So it was his fault, of course it was, he had done something and fuck if he knows what it was and it just hurts. He can’t take it, couldn’t let this sit in his stomach one more second.

“What Have I Done!?” His yell echoes in the chamber, the chair he was sitting in screeching back against the stone and almost falling back as Jaskier shoved himself upright. “I’ve been trying, I have, and I know this isn’t my place and I know it’s not my home, but Gods, I thought I was being a good Guest. Then Low and Behold, suddenly i can’t find anyone and no one will tell me things and Fuck…” Jaskier’s voice breaks. He can handle people not liking him, he’s known plenty of people who do. But they at least had the decency to tell him why, even if it was a knife shaped bunch of words.

Vesimir strides up to the bards side and clasps his arms, soothing the strong quaking Jaskier was ringing from his body. "Easy boy, Easy!" He said, ducking his head to make eye contact with the now weeping bard. "I've never seen the boys happier than when you're here. Jaskier, I'm sure they're just being Idiots." Vesimir reassures as he rubs circles into the bard’s arms.

“Come On,” Vesimir says in a tender and gentle voice. “I’ll make you some tea, and we can have dinner and talk. I’m sure we can get down to whatever funny business those boys are cooking up.” Jaskier only nods, weakly. Gods it was time for dinner. He’d been so lost in his own head that he hadn’t realized that Night had settled over the mountains.

Vesimir’s hand came up to his back to guide him down the halls, small shakes still slithering through Jaskier every so often, and it didn’t help that the whole castle was in a constant state of cold. He stumbled through the long halls, his head still running through every possible mistake he made, every wrong reply or ill timed Joke. He wanted to believe Vesimir, that this was just something not of ill intent, but Jaskier dreaded the worst of outcomes. Vesimir’s hand left him to open the large doors to the dining hall, a dim light shining under where it barely hit the floor. It was pushed open, and at the mere crack of it, Jaskier was sent reeling.

There was warm orange light, and an intense warmth enveloping him as the entire hall seemed to be warmed to well above what was needed, and the cold in his fingers and toes started to burn away. And the Smells, oh Gods, Jaskier couldn’t dare compare it to what he is served at banquets or weddings. This was better and strong and it found its way deep into his lungs and stomach and it growled worse than any beast Geralt had ever fallen. They walk in and the table, the one that they always sat at for meals, was heavily set with perfectly cooked and spiced game birds and roasted veggies and bread that smelled fresher than anything he had ever been met with here. Tankards were filled with something dark and strong, he’s sure, and by all the Gods above, Jaskier was about to cry just then and there.

He didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until he heard a solid ‘Ahem’ from behind him. Turning quick, some smiles struck him something heavy. Eskel, covered in flour and wiping his hands with a rag gave the gentlest smile his face was allowed. Lambert stood next to him, smelling of something Jaskier could trace back to the tankards, and that devilish grin staining his face. Lastly, Vesimir with his arms crossed and a beam of pride spread across his lips as he clapped a hand on Lambert’s shoulder. Jaskier could feel his eyes suddenly burn, and every negging word of doubt scattered.

“You...What’s all This?” Calloused hands motioned back to the table behind him and then back towards the line of Witchers. 

“Geralt said it was your birthday,” Eskel hummed, the rag he was working getting flung onto his shoulder. “He wanted your first one at the Keep to be Special, so we…” His voice trailed off as his hand gestured to the feast in question.

There was movement, all the Witcher’s knew there had to be, but in a single instant, the bard was pulling all of them into the biggest hug he could muster. His arms barely wrapped around everyones bulky shoulders, but they weren’t going to let him do all the work anyways. A menagerie of arms held each other, solidly, as somewhere deep in the mess, a bard sobbed tears of exasperated relief and joy. There was something missing, though, something that tainted the whole night from being perfect. Jaskier was let go as he tugged back a bit to look at the group, noticing one white haired Witcher missing from the lot.

“Wher-” his question was nipped at the bud.

“Geralt will be here, he’s just cleaning up,” Lambert reassured as he ruffled through that mop of brown on Jaskier’s head. “Come on, I’m starving. We’ve been waiting for you too long, let’s dig in!”

And Dig in they did, not unlike an actual pack of wolves. Everything was divine, the birds roasted and perfectly moist and flavorful, and Gods, Jaskier hasn’t stuffed himself this much since that one time he and Geralt got lost on the backroads for a little bit too long. The drinks were pleasantly sweet, a vast difference from anything Lambert had previously made for him, but it still made his head fuzzy at the edges and warmed his gut. Thoroughly enjoying the display in front of him, the night was carrying onward, and Jaskier was almost worried Geralt wouldn’t be showing his face.

Almost, was the key word.

While Lambert was topping off whatever number of drink they were on, the heavy doors swung open again and let in a wave of cool air that was, honestly, refreshing and just a hint sobering. In the doorway stood the last and late-est Witcher, and Jaskier could instantly see why. He looked clean, neater than he usually does, dressed up in a very familiar silk-trader shirt that Jaskier had dressed him in before more than once. His hair was brushed and half up in a neat bun. There was something tucked under his arm but Jaskier was thoroughly distracted that he had barely enough time to notice before the Witcher was standing next to him

“Hello,” The bard cooed as he turned in his seat to give Geralt his full attention. And he smiled, Metelile, The Witcher smiled at him unabashed and shameless.

“Hey,” Geralt hummed, his one free hand coming to mess with the already tussled brown locks. “Happy Birthday.” They laughed, everyone, cozy and throaty and roaring in Jaskier’s chest.

“Is this why you’ve disappeared all week? Almost sending me into a spiral so you could throw all of this together?” Jaskier waved his arms around at the occupied table in front of him. Geralt just smiled at the floor and quirked his head that Jaskier only saw when he was flustered.

“Partially,” He responded. “This was put together mostly with their help, like you said you wanted,” Geralt’s head motioned towards his two brothers who just raised their cups towards the two of them. “I was busy…”Geralt shifted, kneeling fucking Kneeling, infront of Jaskier and taking the parcel under his arm and placing it on his leg like it was a table. “Making these for you.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped as the leather bound present was offered to him. His hands touched the rough material for a moment before he brought the heavier-than-expected gift into his lap. He locked eyes with Geralt, squinting and suspicious, but that only made the Witcher smile sweeter than before, a hint of Eagerness in his eyes. Leather ties were worked under calloused fingers, strands tugged this way and that to extract whatever this was from it’s wrapping. The scraps of hide were pushed away and left in Jaskier’s lap, intricate and detailed, were two dark leather sheaths, scenes of wildflowers and stars decorating the smooth holsters. Jaskier could already feel tears start to well, almost not wanting to believe what he was just given, but as he looked back up to those molten gold eyes that seemed to be brighter than the very sun, it grounded the bard in reality.

“Geralt you really did-” Jaskier’s words were cut short again.

“Just open them,” Geralt instructed. Jaskier was never one to leave Geralt waiting, so he tugged at the brown leather wrapped hilt of one of the blades.

A Dagger, it was. Steel, cold, and a terrible kind of sharp that made him shiver. It was beautifully designed, the blade itself engraved with calligraphed words down right down the center that read “Yet Here We Are”. It was balanced and shining and so incredibly perfect that his breath caught in his throat as he looked it over. Only a thread was holding Jaskier together that he almost didn’t dare open the second, but he was once again faced with that beautiful face of pleading sweetness that Geralt bore for him that he had no other choice.

He pulled the other one free and this one was Silver, he knew, having to discern the difference to properly care for Geralt’s blades. It was nearly identical, the shape and make just as beautiful and radiant as the steel one but instead of words, engraved down the center was a single dandelion puff, it’s seeds scattering into a wind that drew it up the middle and away into oblivion. They were beautiful, Jaskier thought un-eloquently, every adjective he had deserting him in a second. His eyes were stuck for a long moment that he didn’t realize he was crying until one of his tears smudged his reflection in the weapon.

“You...This...Gods, Geralt, Why?” His voice croaked out, soaked with happiness that it hurt. He caught the Witcher sniffle at the beginning of a chuckle, just as his large hand landed on his knee.

“I’ve missed many winters with you, many celebrations, many words I could have said,” Geralt admitted, his other hand coming to rid the bard of his tears. “I wanted to make it up to you. I wanted to remind you that you matter to us. To Me,” his hand fell to hold his bard’s hand and Jaskier gripped it tight enough to pinch, just wanting to make sure this was real and not some sick dream. “And I’m sorry for being such a fucking fool.”

They laughed, the two of them, just in that little space that they shared. Jaskier’s chest ached in the best kind of way, slow and full of that rumbling thing called affection that clawed at him everytime he was with Geralt; That rumbling churned into a full on storm fueled by tenderness and alcohol and the feeling of being wanted. That feeling of being finally, after a long harsh winter, home. His head bumped against Geralt’s in an unelegant way but he couldn't find the smallest part of him that cared.

“Gods Above Geralt, If you don’t kiss me I might break,” Jaskier whispers, rasped and breathy. Before he could take it back, before he had fucking time to worry about what he said, there were lips against his, inviting and soft and overwhelming and not nearly enough all at the same time. Hollars were there, laughs and roars of excitement, but the bard would be damned if he focused on anything other than here and now and Geralt. 

They pulled apart, their lips just ghosting over each other for seconds and all the while Jaskier couldn’t find it in him to open his eyes. It was just right, that solidness he leaned against, sturdy and warm and smiling at him if Jaskier had to guess. Vision returned and it was flooded with gold and a warm blush painted across Geralt’s cheeks, a proper smile carving into his face like it was meant to be there, and be there for him to see only. Jaskier was spoiled rotten, but he couldn’t find it in him to want to stop.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed again, jolly and soothing. “So...Have a happy birthday?” He asks, chuckling. 

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier scoffed as he went back into to trap the man with another kiss like this could all be gone tomorrow. “The best,” he responds as they break.

Geralt’s arms envelope the shorter man in front of him and hold him like his life depended on it. Because it really did, he found, his very soul being soothed by the warm contact they shared. ‘Perfect’ he thought to himself, ‘This is perfect.’ His nose buried into his neck and it felt like it was carved out specifically for himself.

This truly was a present fit for his Bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! Wanted something cozy for the winter season and since I have a winter birthday, it means theres only a few things you can do for them, and I just kinda projected onto Jaskier a bit. Lol oops. Anyway, Thanks for reading and I hope you all have a warm and comfy evening!


End file.
